The Bobby Gold stories - Anthony Bourdain [28]
"Can you, like, get the light?" she asked, sliding under the covers. "If you're too drunk to fuck, we can do that tomorrow. Right now, I just want to sleep with you." She sat upright for a second, an innocuously worried look crossing her face. "If that's okay?"
Bobby undressed in the bathroom. Took a long shower, washing the stink of Timmy's couch off himself; stood there in the bathroom, forlornly looking at himself in the mirror. He hadn't looked at himself like this in a long time.
When he emerged from the bathroom, in robe and boxer shorts, she was asleep. The cat, who had materialized after no doubt hiding (she'd never seen anyone other than Bobby since he'd taken her in), snoozing by her head. Bobby folded the robe carefully over the single chair, sat for a long time on the edge of the bed, wondering whether to remove the boxer shorts or not, feeling both silly to have put them back on and uncomfortable about taking them off. Finally he whipped them down, pulled up the sheet and got into bed. Nikki didn't move.
In the middle of sleep, he felt fingers on his chest, Nikki's leg working itself between his, her head moving to rest against his shoulder, the absolutely amazing sensation of her breasts brushing against his stomach. His penis immediately stiffened, raising the sheets. He lay there, motionless and afraid, not sure what to do next. A contented noise — it could have been "Mmmnnn" — came from Nikki's mouth, but that was it. She snuggled a bit closer, then her breathing became more even and she stopped moving entirely. Bobby stared up at complete blackness, tiny flares of color exploding in his head.
"Now that's a penis!" someone was saying. Bobby woke — the room flooded with light from the streakless windows - to see Nikki, resting on one arm next to him, covers pulled down, looking at his cock. He still had a hard-on, a painful one, and he reached instinctively for the covers but she swatted his hand away. She straddled him quickly, leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the lips, then whispered in his ear. "You're a nice guy, Bobby Gold. Aren't you? That's the big secret, isn't it?"
She reached down to grab hold of him, raised herself up for a second, then impaled herself on his erection. The cat woke up, looking alarmed, and fled.
BOBBY AT THE BEACH
Bobby Gold in a black Speedo, his hair still wet from the surf, took a long sip of beer and looked at the pigeons.
"Rats with wings," he said. "Beach should be for seagulls. Not pigeons."
"Lighten up, grouchy," said Nikki. "It's a city beach. City beach? City birds."
"I just don't get why people feed them," said Bobby, watching an old man in a walker sprinkle breadcrumbs on the boardwalk. "I mean — it's not like they don't get any food. You ever see a starving pigeon?"
"Cooked a few pigeons in my time," said Nikki, wiping sweat from between her breasts. She was wearing a tiny little bikini. Color: black — in deference to Bobby, the two of them pale in their dark suits, dark sunglasses and dark hair.
"Yeah? How do they taste?"
"Like chicken."
The beach was crowded. It was Sunday and barely a foot of sand wasn't occupied with beach chairs, umbrellas, brightly colored blankets, volleyball players, inflatable rafts, body boards and sunbathers. Bobby and Nikki sat on the edge of the boardwalk, drinking beer from plastic cups and staring out to sea.
"I could live at the beach," said Nikki. "If I had enough money? I could definitely live at the beach. Not this beach . . . More like Cape Cod, maybe the Jersey Shore."
"Maybe. I could see that. Not Florida."
"No. Definitely not Florida." Nikki drained the last of her beer, crumpled her cup and hurled it into a trash can a few feet away.
"Nice shot," said Bobby.
"Three points."
"Two," said Bobby.
"I'm thinking of doing something illegal," said Nikki, apropos of nothing.
"Yeah? Like what?"
"I need money. I want money. I'm thinking